The Atlantis Code

by Charles Brokaw

  They were content merely to protect their secret. Most of them were old men without many years left to them. Ambition and desire had been milked away from their ancient bones by the security and the crumbs of recognition given to them by the Church.

  Murani had ambition enough for all of them.

  He traced his fingers covetously over the bell’s surface. The inscription on both sides was worn, feeling smooth beneath his fingertips instead of edged. He supposed that, after five thousand or more years, its continued survival was a miracle.

  An act of God? he thought. If so, it was the God of the Old Testament, not the God of the New Testament. The God who had allowed the bell to come into existence was vengeful and jealous enough to have drowned the world in floods not once but twice.

  The secrets of the bell were many. Murani knew some of its history, but he didn’t know all of it—and he certainly did not know enough about its usage.

  “Can you read it?” Gallardo asked.

  Murani shook his head. He had studied several languages, oral and written, in addition to his work on languages in the computer field. According to legend, only those special few born every generation could read what was written on any of the instruments. “I can’t.”

  “Then why do you want it so badly?”

  Tenderly, Murani replaced the bell in the case, reseating it carefully once more into the foam cutout. “Because this bell is one of five keys that will open the greatest treasure in the history of mankind.” He gazed at the bell. “With this, we will be closer to knowing God’s Will than we have ever been.”

  The cardinal’s cell phone vibrated in his pocket. He answered it smoothly, hiding the excitement that coursed through him.

  “Your Eminence,” Murani’s secretary, an enterprising young man, said.

  “What is it?” Murani asked. “I gave express orders that I wasn’t to be disturbed this afternoon.”

  “I understand that, Your Eminence. However, the pope has requested that everyone from his offices give a written statement of support for a dig site in Cádiz. He wants the statement now.”

  “Why?”

  “Because the archeological excavation is drawing fire from some of the media.”

  “Surely the pope can issue a statement on behalf of the Church.”

  “The pope feels that he is so new to his office that statements should also be issued by senior members among his staff. You were one of those named.”

  Murani agreed, said he would attend to that upon his return, and closed the phone.

  “Problem?” Gallardo asked.

  “The pope’s worried about Father Emil Sebastian’s efforts in Cádiz.”

  “Talk radio is filled with speculation about why the Vatican would take such an interest in those ruins down in Cádiz.”

  At a stoplight near the Piazza del Popolo, Gallardo reached back between the seats for a copy of La Repubblica. He opened the national newspaper for Murani to see. The banner headline proclaimed:

  VATICAN SEARCHING FOR LOST TREASURES OF ATLANTIS?

  Murani scowled.

  “The paper is poking fun at the Church’s interest,” Gallardo said.

  Unfolding the paper, Murani quickly read the accounts of how the concentric rings in the swamps near Cádiz had been located through satellite imagery. The site was located not far from the Nature Parks near the basin of the River Guadalquivir north of Cádiz.

  Cádiz was the oldest city in Spain. In 1100 B.C., the city started out as a trading post. The Phoenicians named it Gadir, and most of the goods exported from there were silver and amber. The Carthaginians followed, building the seaport up and increasing the trade still more. The Moors followed, but Cádiz had come into its own by then and was accepted as the main trading port to carry on business with the New World. Two of Christopher Columbus’s voyages launched from the city’s docks. Later, the city was invaded by Sir Francis Drake. Napoléon Bonaparte was nearly taken there by his enemies.

  And now, perhaps, Atlantis had been found there. For millennia, since Plato had first written of the fabled city that had experienced some kind of environmental disruption and sank into the sea, all mankind had talked of the glories that might be found in the lost civilization. Claims that Atlantis was a city of superscientists, of magicians, and even of aliens from another star system all constantly circulated through the conspiracy Web sites on the Internet.

  No one knew the truth.

  No one except the Society of Quirinus.

  And Cardinal Stefano Murani.

  And he didn’t plan to share his knowledge.

  “Truthfully, I wondered at the Church’s interests there,” Gallardo said.

  Murani said nothing as he read the story. Happily, it was tissue-thin, nothing but speculation. There were no concrete facts, only guesswork on the part of the reporter. Father Emil Sebastian, the director of the dig, was quoted as saying the Vatican was interested in recovering any artifacts that might once have belonged to the Church. A sidebar, much more factual, documented Father Sebastian’s previous involvement with various archeological efforts. He was listed as an archivist in Vatican City.

  “The Church works in mysterious ways,” Murani said, but he was thinking that the newspaper reporter would have been more interested, even more dogged in his pursuit of the truth if he’d known what Father Sebastian’s true field of study was. The title of archeologist barely scratched the surface of what the priest did. The man had hidden away far more secrets than he’d ever revealed.

  “What are you supposed to do for Father Sebastian?” Gallardo asked.

  Murani folded the paper and put it into the backseat once more. “Write a letter praising Father Sebastian’s efforts.”

  “His efforts to do what?”

  “Restore the Church’s past.”

  “The Church had a presence in that area?” Gallardo shook his head doubtfully. “From what I’ve read and seen on CNN, that section of Spanish swampland has been underwater or close to it for thousands of years.”

  “Probably.”

  “The Church was there?”

  “Possibly. The Church has been all over Europe since its earliest days. We often attend notable new excavations.”

  Gallardo drove in silence for a time.

  Murani thought about things. He hadn’t counted on the dig in Cádiz generating so much attention. That could be a problem. The Society’s business should be conducted in absolute secrecy.

  “I could go over to Cádiz,” Gallardo suggested. “Take a look around and let you know what I find out.”

  “Not yet. I have something else for you to do.”

  “What?”

  “I’ve located another object that I want you to acquire for me.”

  “What?”

  Murani took a DVD and a sheet of paper from inside his jacket. “A cymbal.”

  “A symbol of what?”

  Unfolding the paper, Murani showed Gallardo the clay cymbal, a grayish-green disk against a black background. “I’ve got more information regarding the cymbal’s location on the DVD.”

  Gallardo took the DVD and shoved it into his pocket. “Can just anyone find it?”

  “If they know where to look.”

  “So how much competition should I expect?”

  “No more than you had in Alexandria.”

  “One of my men is still puking up pap after that bullet hit his stomach.”

  “Do you care?” Murani asked.

  “No.” Gallardo regarded him.

  “Then keep looking.” Murani cradled the box containing the bell.

  “This is going to be expensive.”

  Murani shrugged. “If you need more money, let me know.”

  Gallardo nodded. “Where’s the cymbal?”

  “Ryazan’, Russia. Have you been there?”

  “Yes.”

  Murani wasn’t surprised. Gallardo was well traveled. “I’ve got an address for Dr. Yuliya Hapaev. She has the cymbal.”

  Gallard
o nodded. “What’s she a doctor of?”

  “Archeology.”

  “You seem to be focusing on linguists and archeologists.”

  “That’s where these items turned up. I have no control over such things.”

  “Do Hapaev and Lourds know each other?”

  “Yes. As colleagues and as friends.” Murani’s background research had revealed that tie. “Dr. Hapaev has often consulted with Professor Lourds.”

  “It’s a problem, then. That connection could start people looking,” Gallardo pointed out. “First Lourds loses an artifact, then Hapaev—assuming I’m successful.”

  “I have the utmost faith in you.”

  Gallardo grinned. “I’m flattered. But we still have the problem of the connection. Has Hapaev been in contact with Lourds concerning the bell?”

  “No.”

  “She has no reason to suspect that anyone might come looking for her?”

  Murani shook his head.

  “When do I leave?” Gallardo asked.

  “The sooner,” the cardinal told him, “the better.”

  CHAPTER

  4

  SHERATON MONTAZAH

  ALEXANDRIA, EGYPT

  AUGUST 19, 2009

  T

  he knock on the hotel door jarred Lourds’s senses back to the real world and out of the quiet place he habitually went into when he was unraveling a particularly knotty problem. His heart rate immediately accelerated. Glancing through the balcony windows, he saw that full night had descended upon the city. It was late. Especially for someone unannounced.

  Although the attack on the television set had taken place three days ago and Lourds trusted the hotel security, a wave of panic still ran through him. He pushed it back into the dark corner of his mind it had come from. Then he straightened up, feeling the familiar ache in his back and shoulders from staying hunched over the desk too long.

  With the help of Leslie Crane’s studio team, he’d blown up the pictures of the bell. In the hotel room, he’d taped them to the wall over the desk, then taken them down to study and try—in vain, so far—to crack the mysterious language. He didn’t doubt that he would eventually get it, but success, it seemed, was going to take time.

  Crossing to the door in his bare feet, clad in a T-shirt and walking shorts, Lourds halted before his hand hit the doorknob, then thought better of where he was standing, considering recent events. He stepped into the closet beside the door. His hand curled around the iron mounted on the wall. It wasn’t much of a weapon perhaps, but at least with it in his hand he didn’t feel so vulnerable.

  Ah, Lourds, you’re a Neanderthal at heart, aren’t you? He knew he wasn’t, though. Otherwise nearly getting killed three days ago wouldn’t have bothered him so much. He just wasn’t civilized enough—or foolish enough—to believe the Alexandrian police had everything in hand, no matter what they said. They still had no clue who had invaded the television studio.

  Or who had killed poor James Kale. The sight of the man’s burned body in the hospital morgue, with the fingers cut off one hand, still gnawed at Lourds’s dreams. He’d gone with Leslie and the crew that day to identify the man’s remains.

  The knock sounded again.

  Lourds realized he’d hidden but forgotten to speak. “Who is it?” He was embarrassed at how his voice cracked, like he was going through puberty all over again.

  “Leslie.”

  Now that he knew the young woman was outside his door, Lourds wasn’t quite so concerned as he’d been about getting a bullet through his head when he checked the peephole. He peered through the fish-eye lens, saw only Leslie standing there, and opened the door.

  She was dressed for the heat, clad in sandals, bronze capris, and a lime-green sleeveless crop top that showed a delicate diamond stud in her belly button. The gem winked up at Lourds in a fascinating manner. During the last three days he’d spent with her, he wouldn’t have guessed she would wear such a thing.

  Something quite primitive and very interested stirred inside him, displacing all thoughts of the dead producer for the moment.

  “Did I catch you ironing?” Leslie asked.

  Perplexed, Lourds looked at her and wondered what she was talking about. Then he realized he was still holding his weapon du jour, the iron.

  “Sorry. I was just feeling a little insecure. I don’t normally greet guests with an iron in my hand.” Lourds turned and replaced it on the mount in the closet.

  “Personally, I prefer a golf club,” Leslie said.

  “Do you golf?”

  Leslie smiled. “Not as well as I’d like, but my dad gave me a pitching wedge for home protection. I asked for a Glock. He gave me a golf club.” She shrugged, clearly shorthand for, What are you supposed to do?

  “Where did you learn to shoot?”

  “Dad gave in to my love of firepower eventually. He taught me to do both—golfing and handling weapons. He spent time in Special Forces, then served as a trainer before he retired. He’s a great teacher. Good thing, huh?”

  “After the incident the other day, I’d have to agree,” Lourds said. “Won’t you come in?”

  Leslie entered and looked around. Lourds was curious. In the three days that Lourds had been there, she’d never come calling before.

  “I’m impressed,” she said.

  “At what?”

  “The room’s clean. I figured since you’re a professor and a bachelor, things wouldn’t be so tidy.”

  “Looking for a stereotype? The absentminded professor?”

  “Expecting one, I suppose.”

  “I don’t exactly fill the bill as curmudgeonly either.” Lourds waved her toward the chairs out on the balcony. The room was well appointed, with a work area and an entertainment area. “If you don’t mind, maybe we could sit outside. The view is incredible, and your company’s paying for it.”

  Night draped Alexandria, and the city glistened like a jewel box in the darkness. The full moon hung high above, silver among the shadowed clouds scattered across the sable heavens. To the north, moonlight kissed the white curlers running in from the Mediterranean Sea. Far below, the discordant noise of the evening traffic and the joyous cries of the tourists who had indulged too much filled the streets.

  Lourds pulled out her chair and sat her at the small circular table. “Egyptian nights are full of mystery. While we’re here, you should get out and see as much of the city and the outlying areas as you can. It’s incredible. Do you know who C. S. Forester is?”

  “A novelist. He wrote the Horatio Hornblower books.”

  Flabbergasted, Lourds dropped into the wicker chair across the table from Leslie. Over the past three days, he’d grown quite enchanted with her wit, personality, and charm. He could easily see why the television producers had chosen her to be the show’s moderator. “You’ve read the books?”

  Leslie shook her head and looked a trifle embarrassed. “I watched the movies. I’m not much of a reader. No time.”

  “You’re a fan of old movies?” At least that was something. “I thought Gregory Peck was particularly good in that film.”

  “I didn’t see the classic version, just the remakes with Ioan Gruffudd. I purchased them all on DVD.”

  “They can’t be as good as the novels.” Lourds waved that idea away as pure folly. “Anyway, C. S. Forester wrote, ‘The best way of seeing Alexandria is to wander aimlessly.’ ”

  Leslie leaned over the table and tucked her chin onto her interlaced fingers. “Surely seeing the city would be better if I had a guide.” Her green eyes glittered.

  Lourds placed his elbows on the table and leaned toward her. “If you find yourself in need of a guide here, just ask me.”

  Leslie smiled a bit impishly and said, “I will.”

  “So what brings you here?”

  “Curiosity.”

  “About?”

  “Every night after dinner, you just disappear. I was beginning to think that I’d somehow offended you.” Leslie hesitated. “O
r that maybe you were spending time with a loved one on the phone. Or even sending pictures over the Internet.”

  “No. On all counts. No offense taken. I have no significant other. I’m not avoiding you. I’ve been consumed by the puzzle of the bell.”

  “When I walked in and saw all the pictures in your room, I gathered that. The bell is one of the reasons I decided to drop by. I thought perhaps you needed a diversion.”

  “A diversion?”

  “When I get stymied on a project, I usually try to get out of my work environment and go talk it over with my friends. Sometimes that will lift something from my subconscious mind that’s been waiting for the chance to get out.”

  “Are you suggesting a walk? Me and you?”

  “I am.” Leslie met Lourds’s gaze directly.

  Lourds looked at the wall covered with photos of the bell. He didn’t worry about leaving them here. The bell looked like what it was: a curious antique.

  The question was, did he want to leave the puzzle of the bell alone long enough to spend time with an interesting and beautiful woman in one of the most romantic cities on earth?

  It seemed he did.

  “I can get dressed and meet you downstairs,” he said.

  “Nonsense. You look fine.”

  Lourds grinned at her. “Well, I need shoes, at least.” He was ready in less than a minute.

  RYAZAN’ CITY, RYAZAN’

  RUSSI

  AUGUST 19, 2009

  Frustration and excitement chafed at Professor Yuliya Hapaev as she sat at the tiny desk in the basement office she’d borrowed at Ryazan’ University while she worked on a pet project. The underground room held a chill she hadn’t been able to shake, even with a sweater under her lab coat.

  Without any real hope of finding an answer, Yuliya checked her e-mail. Again. She stared at the industrial gray walls and waited for her mail client to pump out the latest messages.

  She checked the time, discovering that it was almost 11 P.M. She groaned. She’d promised herself she would get back early tonight to the dorm she’d been assigned while she was working. The feeling that she’d forgotten something else nagged at her, though she couldn’t imagine what that something was. Her family was in Kazan. She had no meals to prepare, no laundry to do, nothing outside of her work to distract her here.